Let him be hooded³ or caged

    Till the yellow eye has grown mild，

    For larder⁴ and spit are bare，

    The old cook enraged⁵，

    The scullion gone wild.‘

    ‘I will not be clapped in a hood²，

    Nor a cage， nor alight upon wrist，

    Now I have learnt to be proud

    Hovering⁶ over the wood

    In the broken mist

    Or tumbling cloud.‘

    ‘What tumbling cloud did you cleave⁷，

    Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind，

    Last evening？ that I， who had sat

    Dumbfounded before a knave⁸，

    Should give to my friend

    A pretence⁹ of wit.‘